An entire light year away.
Rou Ting and her crones appeared in a dark forest.
The air here was freezing, stagnant, and choked with the heavy, rotting odor of decomposing black pine needles and ancient swamp moss.
A low, creeping fog slithered around their ankles, tasting of bitter sulfur and stale dampness, far removed from the screaming fires and paved avenues of the ruined city.
With a callous, dismissive jerk of her arm, Rou Ting tossed Qing Yan's paralyzed body to the damp forest floor.
THUD.
Qing Yan hit the wet moss heavily, his limbs failing to respond to his frantic mental commands.
Standing over him, Rou Ting smoothed down the wide, wine-red sleeves of her luxurious robes.
She reached up, gently pressing the jagged copper stitches running along the seam of her swollen, borrowed jawline, and a thin bead of dark, stagnant fluid oozed from the puncture holes, which she wiped away with an expression of bitter disgust.
